


evermore anthem

by unchartedandunknown



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AUs are at the start in A/Ns in each chapter, ByHardt week 2020, Byleth “spin the gender wheel” Eisner, Drabble, F/M, M/M, Other, not really following the prompts for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unchartedandunknown/pseuds/unchartedandunknown
Summary: [byhardt week 2020] A different AU for a different day; Byleth and Linhardt throughout.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 23
Kudos: 27
Collections: BYHARDT WEEK 2020





	1. bro if you keep dressing my wounds like that people are gonna think we’re gay...bRoO

**Author's Note:**

> First impressions/promises/scars; Six of Crows AU.

The cold of the antiseptic does nothing to move Byleth, a statue hovering on the lid of the tub, gaze shadows and still as death. The only way Linhardt can tell he’s alive is by the rise and fall of his chest.

Linhardt works quickly, methodically, needle piercing through skin and stitching it back together. Byleth doesn’t complain, so Linhardt focuses instead on himself, keeping his breathing and fingers steady even as he sees the blood flecking on skin, staining his fingers, the needleー

“Linhardt,” Byleth says.

Linhardt flinches when he feels a cold hand on his, but it’s just Byleth, so he forces himself to breathe out a huff.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice clipped. “JustーI need a moment.”

Byleth hums in a way Linhardt interprets to mean to do whatever he needs, so Linhardt collects himself. For all his aloofness and tired nature, there is no doubt in his mind that he is the weakest link in their group of Eagles. His spoiled upbringing certainly didn’t help when it came to facing the unsavouriness of Ketterdam, but his aversion to blood only worsens things.

Linhardt finishes sewing up Byleth’s bullet wound without throwing up or passing out or anything dramatic. He feels the same way Byleth’s sewed-up wound looks, a dull, angry red of abused skin.

“Make sure to keep it clean,” Linhardt tells him as he washes his hands until they feel raw, and then scrubs a bit harder. “We don’t want any infections.”

“Right.” Byleth pulls on his dark coat slowly, glancing up as Linhardt dries his hands and collects his things. “...Where are you going?”

“Bed.” He needs a nap. First Caspar had gotten clipped in the face this morning, then this close callーhe needs a rest.

Linhardt’s room is on the second floor of the Black Eagles bar, which means he only needs to travel across the hall to access it. It’s smaller than he’s used to, more bed than floor with how little space there is, but anywhere is better than the Hevring estate. The walls are thicker, soundproofed for privacy, but the chatter of the bar below is still a murmur under his feet.

He’s not expecting a knock not even five minutes in, but he says, “It’s open,” and watches from his low vantage point on the bed as Byleth enters and closes the door behind him. “Did you need something?”

Byleth shakes his head, pulling out the chair at Linhardt’s desk and staying on his bedside. Linhardt doesn’t find anything in the slow blink and steadiness of Byleth’s eyes, and decides that maybe he’ll never figure out the man in his entirety.

This routine isn’t uncommon. Sometimes Byleth will stay by Linhardt’s bed like a silent guard while he sleeps. The reason can be pointed to their first meeting - Linhardt, wet and shivering from the attempted drowning, Byleth with blood dripping from his knives, the bodies of two of Linhardt’s father’s men limp and too-still in front of him, a chance meeting, a willing assassin - that makes Byleth a little protective. That, andー

“Do you remember my promise?” Byleth says.

“Of course I do,” Linhardt replies. It’s easy to recall, that rainy day after that meetup with Edelgard and the others, when he had decided to confide in Byleth.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” Byleth says. “You’re not like us.”

“Well, no,” Linhardt murmurs. “I’m softer.” _Weaker._

“You’re not a killer,” Byleth says. “But you don’t need to be.”

And like that day when the rain poured and bore down on the streets, he says, “Until your father has paid for what he’s done, I will make sure you never get hurt, and never have to kill.”

It’s a loaded vow. It was laughable back then, when Linhardt had seen for himself the streets of Ketterdam and all they had to offer (or, what they didn’t). But up until now, Byleth has kept true to his promise, and Linhardt has never been wounded in battle, has never had to kill as a last resort. His hands are clean, while Byleth’s are scarred. There’s plenty more on his body, ones Linhardt patched up himself, others he wasn’t there for. It doesn’t change anything between them; Linhardt still trusts him.

“Until my father is dead, you mean,” Linhardt says wryly.

Byleth’s mouth twitches into an almost-smile. “Edelgard has plans,” he says. “And when she’s done planning, she’s going to tear this city down brick by brick, and we’re going to help her do it.”

It shouldn’t be relieving, those words coming from the Ashen Demon, the assassin working for the Black Eagles, one of the smallest gangs in the city, but it is.

Linhardt finds sleep without any problems with that. After all, with Byleth here, he’s the safest person in the world.


	2. [strums guitar] i love you bitch. i ain’t ever gonna stop loving you, biitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memories/reminisce/academy; band AU. So maybe I did listen to Blackbriar’s Arms of the Ocean for this, and what of it

The band rolls in like fog settling over the stage. The crowd is already shuffling around, energy thrumming high in expectation. The lead singer’s voice cuts through the fog like a lighthouse, eerie in its singularity, the choppy waves of the cheering crowd incomparable and weak in the face of it. Despite the fact that he’s in the back of the crowd and unable to catch more than a glimpse of the band, her haunting voice dogs his memory, sinks its claws in without hurting at all, soft in the way it digs into him.

And he does hate the crowd of sweat-stained bodies and blinding loudness, but he comes back every time because of the feeling it gives him for a moment, strung along with the crowd, bound by a melody and a voice and a drumbeat for a heartbeat in his ears.

The euphoria tides him along for the duration of the show, caught in the flashing lights and chaotic nighttime energy. The cheering of the crowd rouses him like he’s waking from a dream, pulled out of the eye of the storm to the calm settling beyond it.

The show is over.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


They hit the road immediately after cleanup, no time to pause or draw breath. They load up their equipment, and leave the stage with a peaceful silence. The bus is silent save for the occasional snores from Caspar’s cat, some rustling under the covers and the constant hum of the engine. The road is dark, illuminated by the slowly fading moonlight, their destination set far ahead of them.

Linhardt’s mind runs rampant with the night, wild and bursting to overflow. It’s how he’s always functioned as a night owl, imagination overgrown and untamable.

Byleth leans back on him gently, stretching across the length of the couch, light catching her piercings. The strum of her guitar is strong but quiet, unwilling to wake fellow bandmates. A few years ago, they were in the same position, but Linhardt would never have imagined them here now, compared to when they were just two students messing around in an empty courtyard at lunch. Then again, this _is_ Byleth. Maybe Linhardt should have expected this from her, unshakeable as she is once she decides on something, including her dreams. Fate could have a set destination in mind, and she would tear it down with all the power she wields within herself.

Byleth strums her guitar again and leans farther into Linhardt’s space, not pushy, but curious as she nuzzles into his shoulder and peers at his notebook. “Are you writing another song?” she asks.

Linhardt sighs. “Do I write anything else these days?”

Byleth smiles, wide and open. “Okay.”

“‘Okay’?” he repeats as Byleth rests herself along one side of Linhardt’s arm, long gone numb from her weight.

“If you didn’t want to write for us, you wouldn’t,” she says matter-of-factly. The only lights on in the bus shine down on them, illuminating Byleth’s expression.

“I suppose you have a point,” he admits. “Though, I could easily just be doing this because Edelgard wouldn’t stop insisting.”

“Maybe. But we have two lyricists for a reason.”

The truth is, he didn’t need much convincing when Edelgard came to him asking for help with creating a song when he heard Byleth had joined her band as well. He wanted to see it, too, the lightning-in-a-bottle wonder she was, and he could imagine her dominating any stage easilyーshe was made for it.

Linhardt falls asleep long before they’ve arrived at their next destination with Byleth by his side. When they wake, they’ll still be safe. Everyone they love is in the bus with them. The world continues turning, the day starting anew. And with it, a new stage to conquer.


	3. damn bitch, you live like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attachments/AUs/transitions; modern AU.

Byleth places down the last of the boxes with an air of finality. He joins Linhardt where he lies spreadeagled on the ground, long having abandoned any pretenses of helping Byleth. A warm breeze wafts in through an open window, teasing at fallen strands of hair covering Linhardt’s face. Linhardt feels a weight lifted off his chest, the shadow of his father and his expectations, for once, completely gone. No longer smothered, he stretches luxuriously on the wooden ground, feels freedom and new burdens take space between his shoulders blades as he says to Byleth, “So. Takeout?”

That night they scarf down warm, greasy pizza and swallow it down with a celebration of beer from sweaty cans that stick with a sweetness to their fingers, too lazy to pull out kitchen appliances just yet (another day, a different hour). They sleep on their comforter on the floor, tucked into each other and breathing easy, limbs reaching, searching for each other even under the scratchiness of the blanket and the quiet night.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“So,” Bernadetta hedges one afternoon, under the awning of the coffeeshop two streets away from Linhardt and Byleth’s apartment (and isn’t that new, something being his, _me_ becoming _us_ ), “how has living with Byleth been?”

Linhardt takes a sip of angelica tea and mentally works through the first weeks after the move-in with Byleth. Since then, they’ve quickly gotten situated in the apartment; purchasing appliances when needed, constructing the bedframe, cleaning the apartment.

“It’s going well so far,” Linhardt says. Sure, the living room is still a little bare, and the kitchen table has a wobbly leg from when they accidentally bumped it into a wall during the moving process, butー “Just the other day, Byleth purchased a vegetable.”

Bernadetta waits from him to continue. Linhardt raises a brow and takes another sip of his tea.

“Is...is that it?” she prompts.

“That’s a lot, I’d say.”

She says, slowly, as if scared to offend him, “You’re sure? I just...” she fidgets with the lid of her cup. “You guys can ask for help, if you need it. Not that I don’t think you’re capable of handling yourselves,” she rushes on, “I just...yeah.”

“If we need help,” Linhardt says, a smidge annoyed but also touched, “we’ll be sure to call you.”

Bernadetta dips her head in a simultaneous nod and to take a sip of her drink, but there’s no hiding the small smile on her face.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The weekends are times of indulgence for Linhardt and Byleth both, the only extended periods of time they can spend with each other. They laze about in the mornings, tangled up in bedsheets and each other, Linhardt’s presence enough to convince Byleth to stay with him. To some, this would be time wasted; for Linhardt, it’s an hour of the day he wouldn’t trade for the world. Who doesn’t like sleeping in?

In the afternoon, Byleth grades papers while Linhardt catches up with whatever shows catch his attention; occasionally, he’ll peel and feed Byleth mandarins while he works, fingers stained a faint orange and sweet-smelling afterwards until he washes them.

They fall into a routine somewhere between the early morning coffees and weekly laundry runs, the failed meal experiments and late night binge-watching that extends into the early morning. It’s not the life Linhardt always imagined for himself when he was younger - the long hours apart at the hospital, yes. But Byleth? A definite no.

He can’t imagine a life without him now. Or, he could, but it would be incredibly bland and stressful, like a day spent without napping midway.

“Linhardt.”

“Yes?”

Byleth looks up at him from his papers. He looks like he’s been contemplating for some time now, lower lip bitten through in thought.

“Can we get a cat?”

Linhardt thinks about it for all five seconds. They live in their own apartment. Who’s there to stop them?


	4. Linhardt can’t swim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Circles/seasons/patterns; Spirited Away AU (epilogue/what I can imagine happening after the movie, but with Byleth and Linhardt). This one is decisively more half-hearted than some of the other days, bc I didn't feel like writing an entire fic for this au.

Linhardt finds himself back on the beach again, but that is a story for another time. For now, he digs his feet into the sand and the moment, eyes tracing the horizon like he’ll see a figure in the distance, but there’s no one there.

His parents are fine with pretending everything’s fine as they spread out a towel on the beach, as if this last-minute trip isn’t a last ditch effort at the ordinary lives they lived before. Linhardt knows better. Pretending won’t change what happened, what’s left them stranded in the future.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Apparently his family was missing for a decade.

That’s what they tell him when they emerge from the forest. His parents remember all ten minutes of the start of the trip until the food stands. Linhardt remembers it all, from the hauntingly abandoned theme park to the dilapidated bathhouse, the spirit with a warning, the theme park coming to life at night, and everything unbelievable that followed afterward.

The world they had left behind had aged ten years without them. Sometimes Linhardt could see a mirror image of the world before they left it ten years ago, before he blinked and the memory disappeared. The Hevring family learned to cope with the changes, fumbling about to recalibrate their lives, from the recent rise in technology to securing their finances once more. Linhardt was a wisp in school, prone to sleeping or gazing out the window instead of listening attentively or taking notes. He didn’t make any friends. He didn’t really care; the people he cared for most were the ones in the spirit world, while he’s stuck in a class with kids ten years younger than him who are somehow his age. Or, he’s somehow _their_ age. Time passes much slower in the spirit world.

But Linhardt is human, and he wouldn’t have enjoyed staying at the bathhouse any longer anyway, serving a spirit and under the threat of his parents losing their lives.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


In his dreams, he tightens his hold on his gifted woven white hair tie, and remembers a cold flight in a starless night sky.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He manages to ask his father once about returning to the old Hevring estate. It takes some convincing, but his father bundles him into the car and sets them off.

But the river has long been drained, not even a shadow of its former self. It’s been blocked off for years now, not even a hint of its existence. Maybe it still runs underground, but Linhardt doesn’t know what this means for Byleth, whether this is death or a half-life, and he’s not sure which he would prefer.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The seasons change, and Linhardt changes with them, a gradual snail’s pace he doesn’t fight. Limbs learn to lengthen in reach, eyes grow dimmer as they see the new world, and memories shift and boil over and evaporate into heat and fog, but Linhardt still remembers, as distant as everything is.

Caspar leans into him to shout something he can’t make out over the music. _This is why,_ Linhardt thinks, _you don’t try to talk on the dancefloor_ , as he bends down so Caspar can yell something that’s still incomprehensible into his ear.

Linhardt makes to snatch his wrist but Caspar grins, throws a thumb over his shoulder, and vanishes into the crowd. Linhardt follows his bobbing head to the bathroom signs and, after a drunk girl almost spills her drink on him, resigns himself to spending the rest of the night outside the dancefloor.

Outside the club is much quieter, late enough that only the occasional car drives by, headlights brightening the dark road and disappearing further down the road or round the bend. Linhardt considers the size of his hand, the length of his fingers, splayed out against the night sky. He wonders, not out of importance, but a dull curiosity, how _those_ hands would feel slotted against his, the feel of their palm and the curve of their hand. Do spirits age the same as humans do, or are they still stuck in the body of a child?

“Linhardt, there you are!” Caspar says. Linhardt turns to see him with a dopey smile on his face, the right side of tipsy. “Whatcha doing out here?”

Linhardt turns back to the sky, letting Caspar struggle to reach his neck and hook an arm around him, long used to his warmth and closeness. “I wanted to go to sleep.”

Caspar hums against his shoulder. “Alright, but you’re driving.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Linhardt is twenty-five and flooring the brakes, grip on the wheel made of steel, the story for another time. The grass runs tall and evergreen on both sides of the gravelly road, the ocean running along one side. He smells the saltwater air, the wind refreshingly welcome as he rolls down the window to allow the breeze in.

He’s been running through the problem in his head for a while now, ever since he gritted his teeth and asked his father to let him visit the former estate they used to live in, since he saw what the river had become. Byleth is undoubtedly alive in the spirit world, but whether they can appear in the human world is another question; their tether to this world shouldn’t exist anymore.

Keyword: shouldn’t.

Because if there’s one thing Linhardt remembers, it’s that all rivers lead to home, and that home is the ocean.

So he shuts his car door and stumbles down to the beach, too early in the morning even for joggers or the sun itself. He pulls off his shoes and socks and doesn’t bother pulling up his pant legs, rushes into the cold and shivers.

(And he remembers the last time he did this, a name whispered under his breath with his parents at his back. Linhardt thinks maybe he wasn’t loud enough then, but he’s tired and alone now, and he doesn’t know when that started to matter, being alone.)

He shouts a name once, twice, like he can speak a spirit into existence. His voice echoes back at him: _Byleth, Byleth._

Nothing but the wind answers.

His pants are soaked through to the knees. Waves slap weakly at his legs, small enough to not splash but large enough to tug at his balance. Linhardt convinces himself that the sting in his eyes is from the traitorous wind.

He’s about to turn back when he sees something shift in the waters, long and sea-green, throwing off beams of dawn, moving the tide. The figure that rises out of the water is taller, older, but it is them all the same. Linhardt doesn’t hesitate to step further into the ocean, hands reaching up to cradle a once-familiar face, reading to be made familiar all over again.

“Byleth.”


	5. this chapter brought to you by horny grip meme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peace/relaxation/intimacy; dance AU.

Linhardt, for the umpteenth time that day, sighs his whole weight’s worth out of his body. “What can I do to convince you to leave me alone and that I’m not interested?”

Edelgard, stubborn as she is, only fixes her mouth in a firm line, sticks her chin up further, and places her hands on her hips. “You can’t,” she says, as if deciding Linhardt’s fate herself, which she is. And then she continues with, “I need you for this,” as if flattery is going to convince Linhardt at all.

“And I,” Linhardt says, “couldn’t care less.”

Edelgard frowns. “At least come to the studio and see what we have to offer.”

“I’m really not interested.” And why should he be? He has a stable job with 9-to-5 hours; he doesn’t need another one.

“I’ll text you the address,” she says, acting as if she hadn’t heard Linhardt at all. “You can visit when you feel like it.”

There’s just no getting out of this, is there?

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Linhardt figures it’s less of a hassle if they just get it over with, like ripping off a bandaid. There’s a man at the reception desk when he enters who looks more snake than man who spends all of five minutes staring Linhardt down before Edelgard arrives.

Edelgard whirls in with a bright smile and wiping sweat off her face with the towel around her shoulders, clearly having just finished a lesson. “Linhardt!”

“Yes, that’s me,” he replies with none of the enthusiasm she has. “I’m here to tour the studio, like you’ve been telling me to do.”

The man behind the desk raises a brow and looks Linhardt up and down. “Is _this_ the one you mentioned?”

“Yes, Hubert. This is Linhardt. I want him to teach here.” Edelgard turns back to Linhardt. “I’ll give you a tour of the place.”

Edelgard shows him around each class. The students don’t pay the pair any mind when they peep into the classrooms, busy listening to their instructors and replicating dance moves in the mirror. One of the instructors, a woman with purple hair up in a ponytail, gives them a nod.

“So?” Edelgard asks as they pause between the classrooms. “What do you think so far?”

Linhardt hums flatly. “You’ve certainly got a lot of students. Plenty of people would be interested in teaching here. I don’t see why it has to be me specifically.”

Edelgard hesitates. “We need someone like you here. You’ve been in dance since you were eight.”

“Plenty of kids have been in dance since they were eight or younger,” Linhardt says. “There’s nothing special about me.” There’s no pity in this, only fact. Besides that, he only kept going into dance until his father put his foot down, and Linhardt was forced into college. It was just something he took part in to pass the time. He could’ve just been taking a nap and relaxing in that time, but instead he wasted time learning something he would never use again.

“I don’t know about that,” Edelgard says, a small smile on her face. “I certainly admired you, when I was learning with you.”

He’s about to ask why, but Edelgard opens the door to the next classroom before he gets the chance.

The students all seem to be gathered on one side of the class. Linhardt tracks their gazes to the dancer they’re watching, presumably the choreographer. A steady beat plays. The instructor’s moves draw Linhardt in like a moth to light. They’re clearly an experienced dancer, with perfect torso control that lends itself to balanced full body extensions in their dance movements. He gets lost in the pull of their movement, flowing like water in one and becoming rigid as mountains the next, flexible wherever it’s needed. He doesn’t realize the demonstration is over until the students are clambering to their feet to face the mirrors as the music’s stopped.

In the busyness that follows, Linhardt says, “Edelgard.”

“Yes?”

“Who was that?”

A crease appears between her brows. “You mean Byleth? They’re one of the newer teachers I hired. Impressed?”

Linhardt hums halfheartedly to hide his interest, and they drop the subject there.

Back at the reception desk, tour finished, Linhardt says, “I’ll take the job, but only part-time.”

Edelgard looks delighted at the prospect, but what Linhardt’s come to realize is Hubert’s natural frown deepens.

“Wait a moment,” he says. “Linhardt, was it? When was the last time you danced?”

“The last time I took dance was in high school, so it’s been about...eight years?”

“So,” he says flatly to Edelgard, “you’ve been trying to hire someone whose dancing experience is almost a decade old?”

“I can still dance,” Linhardt says, a little petulantly. “I just need to practice again.”

“And what then? Can you instruct the students as needed? Can you choreograph your own dance?”

Linhardt sighs, already seeing where this can lead, and decides to cut it short. “One week.” Hubert arches a brow. He continues, “A week to choreograph a routine. If you don’t like it don’t hire me.” He turns to Edelgard. “Can I go now?”

She takes a moment to reply to his flat question, thumb and pointer finger rubbing together in thought. The nod she makes is a decisive one. “Yes,” she says, a flicker of a challenging smile passing her face. “That should be fine.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Linhardt collapses on the cold, wooden floor and wishes it would consume him. That way, he won’t have to choreograph his own dance routine. (Why did he do that, again?) As it is, he closes his eyes and imagines it instead as the music continues playing without its dancer.

The door to the classroom, empty except for him, opens and lets in a rush of cold air. Assuming it to be Edelgard, the only one who’s visited since Linhardt proposed borrowing one of the classrooms of the dance studio to dedicate to his routine, he says, “I’m not lazing off, just taking a break.”

A person politely clears their throat. Linhardt opens his eyes and seesー

He lurches up. _Not Edelgard._ It’s the instructor from last week. They’re even prettier up close, hair pulled back in a low ponytail, the tight cut of their crop top making the back of Linhardt's neck heat up.

“I’m one of the instructors at the studio,” they say. “Byleth Eisner. Edelgard told me I should introduce myself, since I was free.” Their face gives nothing away to how they feel about this.

Linhardt sweaty hair off his forehead and offers Byleth his cleaner hand while cursing Edelgard for letting him be seen by this new person of interest when he’s clearly not looking his best. “Linhardt. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Byleth nods woodenly. Linhardt thinks disappointedly that that’ll be the end of it, but then they take a seat beside him and Linhardt reaches for his water bottle, suddenly parched. “Choreography is going well, I take it?”

Linhardt sighs, capping the bottle. “I wish.” Knowing Byleth’s already seen him in this state he forgoes all formalities, spreading out on the floor.

“Edelgard told me you haven’t danced since high school, or choreographed anything before,” Byleth says. “What made you accept her offer?”

Linhardt eyes the dull, grey ceiling. He thinks of his apartment and home, the job he’s returning to in the morning, of following in his father’s footsteps and carrying the family name.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Suppose I was just a little bored.”

Byleth hums, head tilted in though. It’s not a look of understanding or solidarity, but a quiet acceptance of things at face value, no questions asked. Linhardt takes the silence for what it is, nothing more, and listens to the song peter off and automatically plays a random one from his playlist.

Byleth doesn’t leave until Linhardt finally peels himself off the ground and convinces himself to give the routine another go. Their silence is intriguing. Linhardt wants to know more, but that would require pleasing Hubert first, so he rededicates himself to the dance again, and doesn’t stop until night falls.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“You ready?” Edelgard asks him the day of the test.

Linhardt nods tiredly. His body aches all over from practice he’s long abandoned years ago, now forced to relive the horrors of again. All this effort had better be worth something now that he’s here.

The other instructors have all gathered for his performance, a few students peeking into the class curiously as they pass through. He should probably be more nervous, but he just wants to get it over with at this point. He’s practiced the choreography enough times already.

The music starts. Linhardt’s body moves, automatic. He feels coiled up like a spring, about to uncurl and snap. It transfers into his stilted movements, barely controlled. He spins midair, and someone whoops as he lets the song carry through him.

When he finishes it’s to see Edelgard standing, clapping with a smile on her face. Linhardt’s gaze lands, instead, on the man beside her.

“Was that good enough?” he says, breezy as can be.

As the rest of them applaud, Hubert’s eye twitches, but he begrudgingly claps twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [dance routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IowTrHYDxeY) used as inspiration for Byleth's routine, bc Yumeki has a way of melding feminine and masculine dance moves together really well and I am forever convinced he has no bones in his body
> 
> The [dance routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qm6uQ8s3zTc) used as inspiration for Linhardt's routine, bc I liked the unhinged energy Dorocy put into the dance and thought it matched the song really well
> 
> Originally the dance routine I was gonna use was gonna be a different one which was why the chapter’s titled That, but I ended up finding those two and not going through with it (and I feel like some ppl wanna know which routine it was, so [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XSVGFikFpk) it is)
> 
> Unimportant additional notes in this AU:  
> -Edelgard and Hubert took ballet lessons together (that’s how they met)  
> -Ferdinand and Lorenz most definitely had formal ballroom lessons  
> -Claude can dance electro/neo-swing (why? I have no idea. [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJmhRuuEmnw) a video as an example)  
> -No one knows Sylvain can pole dance  
> -Seteth was a bboyer when he was younger
> 
> And a final note from my mutual, Xin: bacon lettuce garnish tomato turkey sandwich chips


	6. how do bird people?? wear shirts???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grief/mourning/war; hybrid AU (avian!Byleth, merman!Linhardt).

The ocean is languid today, waves cresting the beach and shoring up on red rocks. The wind is forgiving, pulling at Byleth’s wings as she curls them around herself. She knows better to think any ocean is calm; that is an illusion.

Byleth spots the glint of a tailfin slip in and out of water; a moment later, something splashes onto the rocky shore. Linhardt runs a webbed finger through his hair, scales gleaming in the sunlight in shades of green.

“You’re early today,” Linhardt says as greeting, blinking water out of his lashes.

Byleth’s lip twitches. “So are you,” she says. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to wake up this early.”

“You always get up early on this day.” She blinks at his response. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. We’ve known each other for five years now.”

“That is true,” she admits.

“Moreover, this is the same day you arrived at this beach, if I’m remembering right,” he continues. “I’d assume you were celebrating, but you always look sad on this day.”

Byleth mulls over what to say as Linhardt sinks back into the water, resting his head on his folded arms on top of the rocks, the gills at his neck flaring at the lack of water before relaxing. Seagulls cry overhead.

“Do you remember the pirate ship that used to be here?”

“Oh, yes,” Linhardt says immediately. “Edelgard advised us to keep away from it while it went on its way.”

Byleth finds a shelter from the gentle wind with her wings, arms wrapped around her legs. “My dad died because of them.” Linhardt’s gaze sharpens as he sits up. She clears her throat, searching for the words, and continues, “It happened the day we arrived here. I was distracted, and they shot at me. My dad...”

Linhardt’s cold hand brushes through feather to clasp hers, understanding the rest of the story.

Byleth’s mouth is dry. “There wasn’t a body to bury,” she rasps. “He fell into the ocean.”

Linhardt doesn’t try to comfort her in words. It probably wouldn’t work anyway. He tugs her closer, pulls himself out of the sea to sit and embrace her. He’s cold all over, smells of saltwater, and Byleth’s shiver is obvious from how her wings shake, but she returns the hug all the same. Her wings shift to surround them, protecting them in a cocoon.

“Was that you, then, that burnt down the pirate ship that night?” he says quietly.

Byleth nods sharply into his shoulder. It should’ve felt right, the smouldering wood, the panicked yelling and screaming, their drowning at sea, her revenge. She didn’t expect to feel nothing at all, pacing the shoreline for days later, aimless in life until Linhardt appears, his group of merpeople suspicious of the avian who hadn’t left for the skies or better hunting grounds.

“Is that why you’ve stayed here for so long?” he asks. “Because you haven’t moved on yet?”

Byleth hums a _not really._ Linhardt knows her well enough to decipher it now, pulls back to read her blank expression.

“I like talking with you,” she says. “And I like being here.” In a way, it feels like she’s not alone as long as she’s by the ocean. If her father died there, surely that must mean he’s watching over her from there too.

Linhardt trails a hand through a patch of feathers, making Byleth shiver for a different reason. There’s an assessment happening in his eyes, a decision being made when he says, “Stay, then.”

And Byleth says, “Yes.”

She says, “Yes, of course,” as if there were no other option, even though there is.

Her father isn’t the only reason she doesn’t want to leave now.


	7. and you just drop in and just...smack flip...woo pah! drop down, smaーbaaaaHhH!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebration/gift/future; modern AU (surfer!Byleth, waiter!Linhardt). (The title is a uhh vague vine reference.) Listened to Mitski’s [cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5zuvs8EZDY) of Bleacher’s Let’s Get Married for this one.

Byleth’s waiting for him outside the restaurant, leaning against one of the rickety fences that have been in need of a new paint job a decade and a half ago. Linhardt thinks someday it’ll topply under his weight, but not today. Today, Byleth brightens in the most minute way when he approaches, a change that comes from the inside, difficult to catch; Linhardt manages it anyway, stuff it deep down to remember for later.

“You didn’t forget, did you?” Byleth says.

“I didn’t,” Linhardt says. “Though, I do want to just sleep at this point.”

Byleth holds out his hand. He looks like he’s just gotten back from a surf, skin glistening in the setting sun, hair wet, footsteps soaking into the wooden boardwalk.

“We don’t have to stay,” Byleth offers. “We’re at the beach everyday.”

Linhardt can see them already setting up for the evening further down the beach, towels and chairs and tables, the smell of barbecue. A blue-haired figure waves at them enthusiastically with both arms. Linhardt sighs.

“No, it’s fine. We can stay a little.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Will it seem cold-hearted if I said I can’t remember what this party is for?” Linhardt says. At Bernadetta’s bug-eyed look, he says, “Never mind, forget it. I don’t care.”

Bernadetta chokes out, “Itーit’s our college reunion?”

“Oh.” That explains a lot. Everything, really.

Staying for a little ends up being for most of it, as Linhardt and Byleth’s stay lengthens from minutes to hours, as dinner rolls by and the group continues their celebrations. Being here, surrounded by their warmth years later, seeing the changes by how they hold themselves, their appearances, the way they laugh unbidden like they’re peeling off the years they’ve aged with each smile, is new. Linhardt’s seen all of them at some point down the line in twos and threes, but seeing them all gathered together for once is not an opportunity forced upon Linhardt, in the end. And Byleth is here as well, which leaves Linhardt free to snuggle into his side as the night turns colder.

The fireworks are set up a ways away from them with the help of Hubert and Edelgard. Linhardt digs his feet further into the cold sand and sways along to the song Dorothea sings along to as Petra leads Bernadetta and Caspar in a dance, the campfire light flickering across their faces. He yawns, thinks of how home is a car ride away, and the comfortable bed waiting for them.

As if hearing his thoughts, Byleth briefly squeezes his shoulders, a smile on his face. It’s been there since the party started. Linhardt doesn’t want to see it leave.

There’s a yell from a distance; Hubert and Edelgard are running toward them - Linhardt thinks this might be the first time he’s seen Hubert run, _period_ \- kicking up sand and hands clapped over their ears. The fireworks go off with a far-off whistle- _bang_ with how they shoot off into the air, sending sparks and explosions of colour over the calm ocean. Linhardt doesn’t need to shield his eyes to the display, face tilted up to admire the temporary display of beauty to the fullest.

Byleth is quietly appreciative at his side, and Linhardt follows his gaze to their friends, the way Edelgard laughs without restraint, how Hubert finds Ferdinand’s gaze without struggle, the matching bands of gold on Dorothea and Petra’s fingers.

As much as Linhardt would want to be left unbothered to sleep, life would be so boring without any of them.

Tomorrow will be the weekend, and Linhardt will be able to sleep in early and maybe wake up to see Byleth’s sleeping face in the comfort of their room. For now, he curls up tighter against him and presses a smile and a kiss on the side of his forehead, content to stay just a little longer.

  
  
  
  
  
  


(Linhardt falls asleep before the party ends and Byleth has to carry him to the car and drive them home.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://unchartedandunkown.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/phaedinphaedout)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve spent too long thinking of Edelgard as Kaz Brekker, AKA the Bastard of the Barrel.


End file.
